“Quick!” he whispered. “Where’s the dog?”
I led him to a room above the coach-house where poor Sholto was a pitiful prisoner. Garnesk deposited his precious packing-case on the floor, and called the dog to him. Sholto sprang forward in a moment, recognising the tone of friendship in the voice, and planted his paws on my companion’s chest. For twenty minutes the examination lasted. One strange test after another was applied to the poor animal; but he was very good about it, and seemed to understand that we were trying to help him.
“I should hate to have to kill that dog, but it may be necessary before long,” said the specialist. “But why didn’t you tell Miss McLeod her dog was blind?”
“We were afraid it would upset her too much,” I answered, and then suddenly realising the point of the question, I added, “but how on earth did you know we hadn’t?”
“Because,” he said thoughtfully, “if you had, she strikes me as the sort of girl who would have asked me straight away what I thought I could do for him.”
“You seem to understand human nature as well as you do science,” I said admiringly.
“The two are identical, or at least co-incident, Mr. Ewart,” he replied solemnly. “But what was it you did tell her?”
“We said he was suffering from a sort of eczema, which looked as if it might be infectious, and we thought she ought not to be near him for a bit. Otherwise, of course, she would have wanted him with her all the time.”
When the examination was over for the time being, I chained Sholto to a hook in an old harness-rack, for he was strong and unused to captivity, and the door had no lock, only a small bolt outside. Garnesk packed away his instruments, carried them carefully to the house, and then we sprinted upstairs to dress hurriedly for dinner.